Name
by Alowl
Summary: Despite what I told scarf-and-curlers, I do have a name. But you know that already, don't you king?" Semi-horrific musing of Ichigo's hollow, on Ichigo, Masaki, and the power of names. Now three parts; slight OOC-ness, disturbing conjectures.
1. Chapter 1

"Who – are you

Disclaimer: Not mine. And I know Shiro/Hichigo/whatever is slightly out of character – I don't really think he'd be up for a sophisticated debate of this sort. Then again, he's a hollow – is anything about him non-contradictory? I swear it gets better after the first few paragraphs. First two lines lifted directly from the Ichigo/Byakuya fight.

Genesis

"_Who – are you?"_

"_I have no name."_

What's a name?

A name is a marker of identity. A symbol of who and what we are. In primitive cultures, the symbol is indistinguishable from the thing; thus, a name is, literally, the sum and total of that which we define as _ourselves_. It's debatable, really, whether or not our name shapes who we become, or if we break our appellations to heel until they assume a role as definitive indicators of individual characteristics. The result is the same either way.

Don't look at me like that, king. Unlike _some_ people, I pay attention in class. Now it's my turn to play teacher

It's true that name and identity aren't directly comparable. A person consists of more then what you call them. Knowing someone's name doesn't tell you that they like strawberries, or go clubbing on weekends. It doesn't tell you whether or not they enjoy literature or take a secret delight in astronomy. It doesn't inform you as to whether or not they aspire to become a doctor, or if they'd rather play the base guitar. In this regard, a name is not the sum and total of a person's identity. It doesn't even indicate whether or not someone's dead or alive. Which are you, anyway?

But to know a name – that is power. _Names_ hold power.

When you call someone's name, they automatically look up in recognition. _They_ understand, on some primal basis, that names are important. They associate the name with the self to the extent that there _is_ no self without the name; it is a marker of the identity that is the sum and total of who you _are_. Captives of war, held hostage, repeat their names over and over to their captors, frantically reminding themselves of who and what they are in the face of the pain that would unmake them. Their names are a symbol of their identity, reminding themselves of why they are fighting and why they still resist.

Because we're nothing without a name. There is no _I_ without a name, no stable identity to brace against the world, only a fractured whirlwind of images and experiences that spin like a hurricane of blades that dig deep and tear with abandon into every precious scrap of _yourself._ It's being bare before the storm, letting the lightning soak into your skin and feeling the ozone flicker up the back of your throat and into your laughter.

There's no pain without a name – no flesh to cut, no soul to scar. No blood – only pale ceramic that fuses effortlessly into colorless skin. It's an easy way to live – you should try it sometime.

I have a name. But you know that already, don't you king?

Deny it all you want. We're One in the end, and you know it. I'm everything you've ever locked away – every dark thought that you shoved behind a mental barricade, every secret longing you had to just kill the fuckers who made fun of your hair, every tear you've refused to shed since Mom died.

Oh? Don't like me calling her that? She's my mother too, you know. She brought me into the world just as surely as she gave birth to you. She was the catalyst for my creation, the origin of my very existence – sure sounds like a mother to me, doesn't it, King? Don't curse at me like that – what _would_ she think of your language?

I can remember the rain just as well as you do, king. I was _there_, after all – peering out from behind your eyes, hearing through your ears as I took my first gasps of existence. I can remember how your knees were scraped raw when they had to drag you away from her body; the way her hair lay matted in the mud and how her legs lay limp in the cold. I can ever remember how they found bruises on your back from where she grabbed you so desperately. You refused to let your old man treat them, didn't you? They were the last remnants of her touch, and you didn't want to let them fade away.

Despite what you might think, I don't really like the rain. Then again, I don't hate it, like the Old Man. Ever hear him complain about the stuff? It's sad, really, how he throws a hissy fit every time he looks to get wet. It doesn't trigger weepy emo-fits for me either – really, king, just how old are you again? I don't really care about the rain, to tell you the truth. It reminds me of the day I was born, the day a dead woman's blood and a child's denial of the world yanked me out of nonexistence and thrust me into being. Not exactly pleasant memories, but not without their appeal.

The rain is what the rain is, and nothing more.

Here's a secret for you, should you care to know. Despite what I told scarf-and-curlers, I do have a name. You know it already, king – it's yours, after all. And I'm going to make it mine.

Or was it mine to begin with, and you the thief?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Ichigo, what's the difference between a King and his Horse?_

_If you ever give me the chance, I'll drag you down and crush your skull!_

Ya just don't get it, do ya, king?

King. K-I-N-G. It's a simple word, isn't it. Four letters long. and not really all that impressive. The implications, however – those are delightfully complex.

The title originally referred to a leader; more specially, a war-cheif. This 'king' was an individual all but indistinguishable from the normative population – except in one singular regard. His specialized talents lay in the art of violence; the king was the best fighter, the most capable leader, and thus had the dubious distinction of leading the tribe in times of war. He was tasked with rallying the people and forging them into a collective fighting unit in order to protect their lives and property, to defend what was _theirs._ He was the figurehead, the rallying point, the individual who stood firm and said _no further._

Do you understand _now, _king?

Prestige and tradition have accured about the title over the centuries, but the essential attributes of the role remain unchanged.

You don't know a damn thing, king. You don't understand what we fought for when we bled and struck and _screamed _through a twisted inversion of a world that never was. Then again, it doesn't really matter now, does it?

Would you be surprised to learn that I don't resent you for that? Yes, you won – and yes, I hate you for it on a level that goes beyond words. But, at the moment, you're stronger. More capable then I am, and I respect that. I lost, so I obey – it's only logical. You've proven yourself more then capable to lead, so I'll follow– for the moment.

I have a certain vested interest in your continued existence. I'm sure you understand.

I could do so much better, you know. You really don't know why I win against your enemies, do you? Why _I'm_ able to overthrow the foe who stands before you, the enemy who lets your power beat against him until it shatters like spray on the sea.

I'm _part of you_, you _moron._ The embodiment of your every negative attribute, your darker impulses incarnate into a pale, twisted shadow. If you'd ever bothered to think things through, you would have realized that that doesn't automatically make me _stronger_; a little contemplation would have led you to the realization that, if anything, we're equals.

_I_ win because I'm willing to do anything and everything in my power _to_ win. You- you like being lied to, don't you king? You actually believe all that bull about 'honor' and 'loyalty', and 'liberty'. You're trapped in a self-perpetuated spiderweb of morality and obligations that you dare to permit greater importance then your own _life._

You know _nothing_ of freedom, king.

I consider myself something of an expert on subjugation. I haven't been free since the day I was born – and whose fault, exactly, is that?

Stop screaming at me, king. You look like an idiot, so shut up and listen. Take the universe. Grind it down to bits; tear it to pieces, and sift it through a sieve. Point out to me one atom of honor, one particle of justice, and I'll gracefully yield to your superior wisdom. Hand me a gram of decency, a spoonful of beneficence, and I'll bow before you without a word.

Nothing to say? Good. Let's continue.

Have you even _noticed_ the change in yourself? You don't get angry – irritated, yes, annoyed, undoubtedly so – take in the latest bruises on Pop's head if you need any proof to substantiate my claim. But you don't get _angry. _Oh, there's the occasional bout of righteous indignation – upsets my stomach, actually. When was the last time you _hated_ someone, king? When you felt your gorge rise and your skin crawl as every molecule of your being screamed at the thought of their continued existence? When was the last time the world contracted to a seething tunnel of blood and shadow as you swore you'd do anything – anything – to just _kill the fucking bastard?_

When was the last time you actually felt sad?

The rain falls often enough – _I _should know – but you don't let that get you down, do you? When was the last time you _mourned_, king, when you felt your soul crack from the grief, when you begged to die so the pain would _stop? _Oh no; you simply slap on a brave face (heaven forbid that I, of all people, should call it a _mask_) and march forward, drawing your sword and setting yourself against whatever unlucky bastard's the enemy of the day. They'll fall, eventually – we're stronger then just about anything this godforsaken place has ever laid eyes upon.

But you'll call me. And I'll rise, screaming, from the darkness, golden eyes and razor nails clawing through the inside of your skull as I burrow my way towards freedom. Because, king, you're _nothing_ without me. Am I the only one to recognize it? You claim that I'm your darkness personified – but what does that make you?

You're forgetting one vital point, king. I might be the darkness, but you're the light; as such, you're only half a soul. Souls, in and of themselves, are neither soley good or evil; they're shadows, swirls of grey punctuated by sudden bursts of light and darkness. Quite pretty, actually – you should try taking a look the next time you borrow my eyes. You might be surprised at what you can see from my perspective.

The point, however, is that they're constantly in flux. Ever-moving, never-static, bouncing between two extremes. But what about us, king?

We're polar negatives of each other. To borrow an overly cliche metaphor, I'm the darkness, and you're the light. We might have been whole, once - a muted shadow, a grey wanderer, but no longer.

We're _one_, king, two separate sides of the same soul. We need each other. My death is yours, and yours is mine; the boundaries between us are intermixed to the extent that they're all but indistinguishable from one another. You are nothing without me. You call me darkness, call me a parasite, a monster, less then human – well then, what does that make you? You're just the same, only standing on the opposite end of the spectrum. You call me your shadow, your reflection – but I rather think that it's the other way around.

I think that you're _my_ shadow. Or light, in this case. I think that I used to walk in the sunlight and laugh and laugh and _laugh_ at whatever the hell I wanted to, that I used to eat ice cream and smile at Pops and tuck Karin and Yuzu in goodnight. Until the rain fell and that _bitch_ died and _someone_ consigned me to the living hell of this messed-up world of never-was.

Oh, I hate you king. On a level that you can never imagine.

You stole what was mine.

And one of these days, I'll take it back.

Count on it.


	3. Chapter 3

Steel isn't found in nature. It's an alloy, a mixture of various minerals smelted at temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees in order to extract ores, the most well-known of which is iron. Raw iron is actually fairly easy to acquire; it's also far too brittle to serve in weaponry in and of itself.

Steel, in turn, has been described as the partnership of iron and carbon – which is also a key component of materials such as coal and diamonds. But this is the interesting part – in this case, it's the quantity of carbon that you want to be careful of. Odd, that; most of the time, materials are judged via quality… But add too little carbon, and the resulting alloy is useless, barely indistinguishable from unprocessed iron. Add just enough… the resulting metal will be strong, king. Very strong; civilizations crumbled when the alloy was first invented. Read your history; the bronze age gave way to the iron, and the iron age – is not quite finished yet.

Add too much carbon, though, king, and the final result shatters like ceramic; it's weaker than iron by far, and considerably less ductile. It can't bend, can't change, can't adapt – though I'm certain that _someone_, somewhere, gets some kind of use out of it.

What I find interesting is that, inevitably, the final carbon-steel mix is submitted to a rigid filtering process where excess carbon as well as certain - impurities are removed.

The end product is known as steel. And steel – of all the great inventions, steel can be said to be most directly linked to power.

Power is strength. Mercy is strength as well – and I can respect that, even if I can't agree with it.

You really think that I want to be strong just – to be strong? Grow up, king. Much as it pains me to say it, you're not that idiotic. No one craves power for power's sake – well, except maybe for the Eleventh. But have you taken a good look at them recently? How's that working out for them? They get by – you'd probably be in Zaraki's division, if you ever finally kicked the bucket – but don't worry, king. I won't let you head there. I've got other plans.

Yes, _plans_. Please. Haven't we been together long enough for you to realize that?

…you actually think that I'm like them. Like that.

I'm always surprised by just how much of a fuck-up you are.

Are you like that, idiot? Do you go around picking fights just for the hell of it? I have a goal, moron – and no. Not that one. Don't worry. You're still first on the menu for when I get strong enough to shatter these fucking chains. Did you ever stop and wonder what I'd do _after?_

…I'm not Aizen, king. Thank whatever gods hollows pray to. Or is it prey on?

Why do you want to get stronger? And yes, it matters.

No. Don't tell me. You want to get stronger so you can keep your precious little nakama safe. Let alone the fact that most of them manage pretty damn well most of the time. 'S kind of insulting, actually – you trying to take care of them all the time, like you think they're simply incapable of looking after themselves. Grow up. They made their own fucking decisions to help you, and the least you can do is respect that. They're willing to die for you, and, what's more, to kill for you – and there is a hell of a difference between the two.

Thought you knew me better than that, king. I'm all about choices. When was the last damn time you gave me one, again?

Play your cards right, and some of them might even be willing to _live_ for you. But that's what you're afraid of, king, more than anything.

Ever consider trying to get strong enough to keep your own fucking self safe? Didn't think so. I'm the one who has to pick up the fucking pieces after all. And if you get hurt enough – well, just one more reason I have to hate you.

Oh yes, king. I hate you. Never forget that.

But I'm not idiotic enough to let you die. Not yet, anyway. Don't you fucking blame me; you're doing a pretty good job of it by yourself.

You want to get stronger, king. So do I. The difference – and yes, there's a difference. We're the same, but we're not identical after all. Think I'd do something drastic if I got stuck with your brooding all the time. No, wait, I am; how the hell do you expect me to ignore it when I'm trapped in your head, you moron?

I want to get stronger to keep what's _mine_. No one touches what is mine and lives; I'd had – _we've_ had too damn much taken away already, and I am not going to let _anyone_ take anything from me ever again. Not even you, king. You keep what is yours _safe_ – you don't let anyone touch it, hurt it, not even yourself. But by the same token – they're yours to break, yours to destroy. That privilege is not open to negotiation.

You want them, king.

I can feel it every time my heart races – because that is my heart that beats beneath flesh and bone and blood, _my_ pulse lodged within your chest. I can taste it in the maelstrom that grinds above glass and chrome and steel, the winds that roar through the air and the lash of the Old Man's displeasure at the rain. I can smell it in the ozone that flies before the storm, in your own desperate denial of reality when you push for just a little more, just a little more strength, speed, _power…_

I don't have much that is mine, king. Only what you've taken from me. And I am nothing _but_ want. The same want that you've condemned to the shadows of your mind, the dark places you don't even think of if you can help it. But then again – have you forgotten who I am, _what_ I am, so soon? And I thought I'd already explained this.

I'm your darkness, king. I'm every word you never said, every half-condemnatory thought that you wouldn't, you _couldn't_ face. Everything you did your best to just fucking _ignore._ Don't you fucking say a word; it's – they're – some of the few things I have. You gave the, to me, after all. And I'm not so fucking careless enough to just abandon my property. At least _I_ try to take care of what's mine. You're a shitty caretaker, you know. At least _I _make the effort.

You're going to get them killed, king. You're going to _watch_ as they die in front of you, one by one. I don't even _need_ to threaten you. This is a promise. And don't worry. I won't touch them – you will. You've watched, over and over again, and they go the extra mile for whatever the fuck they see in you, whatever makes you someone they'd follow to hell and back. And yes, I'm entitled to be bitter. Read my lips, king. They are going to die.

Because of you.

What? No denials? Could it be we're actually agreeing on something for once? Oh, _there_ you go. Have you been hanging out with the pineapple again? Those are some new curses. And we have the same mother, dumbass. I never took you for one to have an oedipal complex.

And why can't I call him that? He'd my friend too, you know. Or rather, he's yours – but who are you again?

Oh yes. You're me.


End file.
